


Battle Of The Bands

by callmechristinae



Series: Livejournal Migration [19]
Category: Rent - Larson, School of Rock (2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-04
Updated: 2006-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmechristinae/pseuds/callmechristinae





	Battle Of The Bands

“Heal Me, I’m Heartsick? What kind of crap song is that? I could write a better song with a broken amp and one arm tied behind my back…and with earplugs in my ears…and…” Roger began flailing his arms about in frustration while Mark watched with amusement from his place in the beat up chair. From his position, he could barely make out the band performing on stage behind Roger. The rocker began to growl and stamp his foot, his band mates looking up from their pre performance preparations to take in the sight of their sometimes childish front man.

“That’s nice Rog, we get the point,” Mark assured, attempting to calm Roger down. The other members of the band quickly returned to their tasks, one unfortunately tripping over another’s amp.

“But, I mean, seriously! They won a battle of the bands before with that shit!” Roger almost threw his hands up into the air, but settled instead for dragging his fingers through his medium length blonde hair, the blue highlights shimmering in the backstage lighting. He shifted uncomfortably in his clean jeans, pulling at his worn Clash shirt.

“This from the guy who took an entire year to write one song,” Mark chuckled, trying to hide his grin behind his hand. He jumped when Roger clamped strong hands on his shoulders, looking up into the clear eyes staring back at him.

“Genius takes time Mark, you should be able to appreciate that,” the rocker intoned with all seriousness, although the corners of lips that were curling upwards indicated anything but.

“You know that you didn’t do anything on it for most of the year and just busted out with it on the bus trip back from Sante Fe. And that was three years ago. How many songs have you written since then?”

“A lot.”

“Right.”

“I did.”

“Exactly.”

“What?”

“Wait. What were we arguing about?” The two men stared at each other for a moment, Roger’s hands still tightly gripping Mark’s shoulders. They shrugged simultaneously.

“I can’t remember. Why don’t you just call me an idiot and we’ll move on.”

“Ok,” Mark agreed. “Idiot.”

Roger grinned back and the smirk on the filmmaker’s face. “But I’m your idiot.”

“Sure Rog.” Mark pressed a gentle kiss to the singer’s cheek, his shoulders finally being released from the death grip they had been trapped in. Mark settled back into his chair, reading over the booklet of the other acts. He tried to ignore the nervous pacing of his boyfriend in front of him, but found himself to be largely unsuccessful.

“We’re going to crush all these wimps,” Roger proclaimed, seemingly attempting to reassure himself more than convince anyone else.

“I’m not so sure Rog.” Mark didn’t even look up, keeping his face hidden behind the poorly printed program.

“C’mon. No Vacancy? What the hell kind of name is that?”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Hey!”

“What about this School of Rock?” Mark asked, indicating the act to follow them. “I heard they’re supposed to be pretty good.”

“They’re a bunch of little kids! If we can’t beat them, we should just retire now.”

“Hey! What you just say pretty boy?”

Both men turned towards the squat man approaching them with a seemingly poor impersonation of Mick Jagger.

“Excuse me?” Roger asked, looking down at the man as he came to a stop.

“Oh, it’s Theo. No wonder.”

Roger’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, his head tilting as he scrutinized the man before him. Mark smiled as he realized the singer was sizing the man up to see if he could take him. “Theo? Who the fuck is Theo?”

“You’re not Theo?”

“No. I’m Roger Davis.”

“Oh.” The man dragged his foot along the dirty floorboards of the backstage area, beginning to walk away before turning back sharply. Roger jumped back slightly at the sudden movement, eliciting a giggle from the seated filmmaker. “Still, what the hell you have against my kids?”

“They’re all your kids?” Roger looked at the kids in confusion, not understanding how they could all possibly be related. Mark just shook his head in amusement.

“Well, no. I’m their teacher. Kinda. I’m technically a sub. But, wait, why am I explaining myself to you? What band are you in?” the still unnamed man pushed himself up onto the balls of his feet, getting as much into Roger’s face as he could. The rocker just stepped back, causing the man’s attempts at intimidation to fail horribly as he stumbled forward. Three of the kids left their fellow band members, moving to stand by their teacher.

“The Well Hungarians,” Roger responded with pride, his chest puffing out slightly.

“What does that mean? Are you all Hungarian?” the young girl asked, looking back and forth between the dark haired and blonde boys standing to the sides of her. “They don’t look Hungarian to me…”

“Well, you see…” Roger began to explain, Mark’s eyes widening as he leapt to his feet, prepared to shut the songwriter up. But the man beat him to it.

“No!” Stubby hands were quickly clamped over the girl’s ears, causing her to jump and attempt to scramble away. “Look how old the kid is! Jesus!”

“What! She’ll find out here or on the streets. You want her to find this out from some drug dealer in a back alley?” Roger defended himself, his hands on his hips and an eyebrow arched in an attempt to look bored.

“They go to a hoighty-toighty private school! Their parents pay so that they’ll never have to find that stuff out!”

“Thank you No Vacancy with ‘Heal Me, I’m Heartsick’! Up next, the Well Hungarians with ‘Wonderchild’!” The announcer’s voice rang out clearly in the backstage area. The previous band made their way quickly past those gathered backstage, the lead singer not avoiding the sneers sent his way by Roger and the man he had been arguing with.

“That’s us. Good luck…” Roger trailed off, bending down to reach the eyelevel of the children in front of him.

“Zach.”

“Summer.”

“Freddy.”

“Well, good luck Zach, Summer and Freddy.” Roger smiled, shaking each child’s hand before returning to his full height. He began to make his way over to where Mark was standing when a voice rang out behind him.

“Hey, what about me?”

Roger swiveled, taking the man in once more. “What about you? Are you actually in the band?”

“Yeah!”

Roger was unable to keep a loud snort from escaping. “Seriously? What are you? Forty?”

“Hey! I’m not  _nearly_  that old! You’ve never heard of Dewey Finn!?” The man proceeded to do an odd dance, his legs shooting out from side to side and his head bobbing awkwardly.

“A guy named Dewey fronting a band of ten year olds. I can’t say I have.” Roger smiled, watching Dewey hush the children who had begun to laugh at him.

“…introducing, The Well Hungarians!”

Mark closed the distance between himself and the songwriter with a few quick steps, giving his usual good luck hug and kiss. “Good luck Rog,” he whispered.

“Thanks,” the songwriter whispered back, giving another swift peck to the filmmaker’s lips before following his band onto the stage.

“How you all doing tonight?” Roger asked the crowd, his lips brushing against the microphone. The crowd gave a mild applause, causing the rocker to shake his head. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you. Now, how you all doing tonight?” The crowd roared in response. “No that’s better! Are you ready to rock?” The crowd screamed as Roger began to sing.

_“If a fever got you burning. And your stomach got you turning. And your mommy doesn't show you. And your daddy doesn't know you. If you're torn up, life confiscated. And if you've been burned, eviscerated. Then you take in all that you're given. And you give out demolition, darling. Tearing down as you keep falling.”_

_“Burn it up to save your life. Tear it down, light the light. You wonderchild, your eyes about to see. Kiss the pain, and make it beg. You are the Queen, that's what I said! You wonderchild, your eyes about to see.”_

_“If you're screaming, but the sonar. Doesn't hear you, cause you're so far  
Under radar, that you don't show. Up on anybody's video. And you're trying to get over. But they keep standing up on your shoulders. And you take in all that you're given. And you give out demolition, darling. Tearing down as you keep falling.”_

_“ Burn it up to save your life. Tear it down, light the light. You wonderchild, your eyes about to see. Kiss the pain, and make it beg. You are the Queen, that's what I said! You wonderchild, your eyes about to see.”_

_“It's your faith. It's your love. It's your light. It's your wonderchild.”_

Mark watched Roger perform on stage, keeping carefully hidden behind the curtain. He smiled as the children of the next band came up and surrounded him, eyes wide in awe of what they were watching. Mark laughed as Roger began to fall into his routine moves, stamping his foot and keeping his right hand tightly gripped between his legs. As always, he sung too close to the microphone and his lips continually brushed against the protective fuzzy covering.

_“It's your faith. It's your love. It's your light. It's your wonderchild._

_“It's your faith (Burn it up). It's your love (To save your life). It's your light (Tear it down). It's your wonderchild (Light the light). It's your faith (Kiss the pain). It's your love (Make it beg). It's your light (You are the Queen). It's your wonderchild (That's what I said!)”_

_“It's your faith! (Burn it up). It's your love! (To save your life). It's your light! (Tear it down). It's your wonderchild! (Light the light). It's your faith! (You wonderchild, your eyes about to see). It's your love! It's your light! It's your WONDER!”_  Roger screamed the last part, the song ending with a short instrumental portion. He waved and bounced offstage with the rest of his band as the crowd screamed and applauded. He was quickly surrounded by musicians, many of whom barely reached his waist.

“Wow! That was awesome! It was just like…”

“Yeah! Did you write that? Why did you sing…”

“What was the chord you were using in the chorus? Did it go like…”

“I thought I heard you before! You did that song about the eyes…”

“Woah, calm down everybody…” Roger held his hands out, making his way through the sea of children over towards the amused filmmaker behind them.

“And now…and big round of applause for School of Rock!”

“C’mon everybody! Let’s kick some tail!” Dewey shouted, leading the charge onto the stage. The children screamed, following him quickly and leaping up and down.

The two Bohemians watched in silence as the children began to perform, the crowd very clearly enjoying the entertainment more than most of what they had seen that night. Mark moved in closer to Roger, keeping out of the band’s way as they packed up. He wrapped his arms loosely around the singer’s waist, resting his head on the warm shoulder.

“So. You ever want to have kids Rog?” he asked, hiding his grin in the soft black material of Roger’s t-shirt.

“Whatever you want Markie. Just don’t ever let them near that Dewey fella. I don’t think he’s even a real teacher.”

Mark laughed loudly, turning back to watch the children on stage.

_“...rock got no reason, rock got no rhyme. You better get me to school on time…”_

 


End file.
